


Hide Your Otherness

by ReadingIsFundamental



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: and it will be for awhile, but like, i wish i could say that this would be fluff, it's still solavellan, not quite canon lavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadingIsFundamental/pseuds/ReadingIsFundamental
Summary: The story of Harellan, an ex-Orlesian bard and exiled member of her clan, and how she saved Thedas, loved deeply, and lost greatly.





	1. No Rest For Wicked

_In a magical forest there was a clearing. In that clearing there was a peculiar group of animals living amongst one another though nature normally spoke against it. Though the bear and the boar would but heads often, and the fox and the wolf weren’t trusted entirely, all was well. The raven and the dove sang harmoniously while they sat amongst the lion’s man, and the honey badger created an air of mischief. The halla held the group together with poise and grace, her brilliant white coat a sight to behold as she stood proud and unabashed among her fellow creatures._

_But one day, the clearing was sieged by poachers bearing swords, bows, and shields. The animals fought bravely, but alas, were driven out of the burning clearing set ablaze by the nasty poachers. The halla stayed behind to see that the group left their, once peaceful, clearing at a safe distance before following._

* * *

 

The breach had been closed and celebration erupted around Haven. Friends clapped each other on the shoulder and threw back their drinks in hopes of getting another in their hand the second the last drop pushes past their lips. The rising Inquisition had done it; closed the breach that started it all and yet the Inquisitor felt wrong.

Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach, something was coming. Harellan stared into the sky, willing it to happen; whatever _it_ was: something had to be coming. It was a distant warning echoed in the back of her mind, as if spoken softly by someone in the far reaches of Haven. Buried deep in thought, she gave off a negative vibe that didn’t go unnoticed. Varric reached up to place a reassuring hand on the small of her back. Harellan jumped, startled out of her thoughts, but laughed breathily when she saw that it was only her dwarven friend.

“Oh Varric, don’t scare me like that!” She put a hand to her chest to steady her heart as he laughed at her.

“After all the things you’ve seen, Snowflake, I can’t possibly be the scariest.” He looked at her and furrowed his brows. A gentle smile rested upon her lips unevenly, but didn’t reply.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating, Inquisitor?” He asked evenly, “I mean, I could be wrong, but last time I checked; you did this.” He motioned towards Haven’s chantry standing resolute in the soft snowfall.  “You brought the mages here—no small feat mind you—and then you sealed the rifts. That deserves some celebration.”

Harellan remained silent as she stared out into the festivities. A man held his wife close and swung her to the rhythm of the minstrel’s tune, merriment sparkled in her eyes as they twirled. It eased the Inquisitor’s worries and smoothed the lines etching themselves in between her brows. Yet still, she couldn’t shake the anxiety of impending doom.

“It feels wrong, Varric,” She took a deep breath and tore her gaze away from the dancing couple as she turned on her heel to eye the chantry.  “Our numbers are growing, the mages will need proper quarters, and I fear we have outstayed our welcome within the chantry’s walls.”

Varric snorted from beside her, making her pale cheeks flush a brilliantly visible red, “Out-stayed huh?” He strode to stand in front of her, in an attempt to gain her attention. “Well, I’m sure that the chantry will let us know when we’ve _over stayed_ our welcome, but for now you should rest.”

“But Varric, don’t you feel it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Snowflake.”

Harellan bit her lip as she tried to find the words to describe the way she felt. Words were pretty things that, during her time as a bard, could be molded, shaped, and arranged with ease, but those days were gone and, so it seemed, was the ease with which she once spoke.

“It just felt like it was too easy,” She said finally. Varric laughed. A full, hearty laugh that forced the outer corners of his eyes to wrinkle with mirth.

“You think too much, Inquisitor,” He replied nonchalantly. “Why don’t you go find Chuckles, see if you can get him out here as well.” With a wink and a nudge, he pushed her down the path towards the apothecary’s house.

At the mention of the apostate elf, Harellan felt her heart flutter in her chest. Like a refreshing breeze in the midday heat of spring, Solas brought a hint of nostalgia and the whispered promise of knowledge, leaving her with the desire for more. The mere thought of speaking with him in an isolated situation made her stomach do flips, but she tried to remember why she was protesting in the first place and found her grim sense of dread lying in wait. Harellan dug her heels into the ground to push against Varric’s strong hand.

“But why me?”

“Well, you are, kind of, the only person Chuckles ever talks to, so I figured if anyone can get him to loosen up and join the festivities; it’d be our dear Inquisitor.” Varric explained with a knowing look.

Harellan huffed, her pale cheeks ensuring that her flushed face glow in the moonlight, but felt her sense of pride swell, knowing that everyone believed her to be the one closest to the group’s resident apostate. The feeling overrode the nagging anxiety and she slowly relented.   

“Very well, but should something happen you must come fetch me,” She insisted, “-and I mean immediately, Varric.” Harellan locked eyes with him then, something that was rare for the Inquisitor, staring deeply into his own with an intensity that made him think about putting space between them, the way a man would a feral animal. At this proximity, the dark shade of her irises appeared closer to the pigment of raw, unprocessed rubies; a lethal hue of carmine that would send lesser men running. Entranced, Varric simply nodded in response, for for the first time, words had escaped the infamous writer.

Satiated, the Inquisitor started towards the apothecary’s. Bringing a gloved hand up to scratch at his chin, Varric hummed to himself. He sat upon the overhanging cliff, rattled, and absentmindedly watched the party continue below.  

~

“Good evening, Solas.”

Solas stood on the snowy steps like a sentinel, his tunic billowing in the windy, winter night.

There was something in Solas that Harellan found undeniably attractive and spent many moments sitting upon the very steps he stood upon now, listening as he retold memories shared with him in the fade, watching him speak with grace beyond any man she had ever seen before. Glorious battles at long lost locations known only to the spirits who still walk them, glittering halls of ancient civilizations reduced to nothing but shadowed frames, and the wonder that overtook his face with each retelling were all worth experiencing hundreds of times over. At first, she thought it was simply her adoration for a well-told story, but now…now as long as Solas is speaking, she’ll listen.

“Hello Inquisitor,” Solas greeted with a curt nod of his head. “What are you doing away from the festivities, this is your celebration, no?”

“I could ask you the same question,” She quipped, a polite smile forming on her face. “Not one for parties?”

“Perhaps.” He quirked an eyebrow, a wry smile settling on his lips as if he thought something funny. “Were you sent to fetch me? I can’t imagine that an apostate would be missed.”

“Solas you are an important member of the Inquisition and a friend, of course we would miss you at the celebration.” Harellan insisted as she climbed the stairs to meet him. “Nevertheless, I wanted to talk with you, maybe get a story or two out of it while I’m at it.”

Solas stared at her and, gazing into her eyes, couldn’t help but to notice just how they shone the color of freshly spilled blood. Her gaze fell away quickly, but he found himself questioning whether the victims of his Inquisitor noticed the exact same thing before she decided their fates. It was a chilling thought, but intriguing nonetheless.

“Very well, but please do follow me out of the cold.” He motioned for her to follow him into one of the small houses of Haven.

The two situated themselves in a comfortable enough storytelling position; Harellan crossing her legs one over the other on the floor like a child awaiting a present and Solas comfortably on the bed.

“Tell me of your most recent exploration of the fade, where did you go?” She asked, eyes flitting back and forth trying to read his expression like a new book.

“A beautiful castle lies forgotten in the Ferelden countryside, filled with the echoes of years gone by.” He began his tale and Harellan allowed herself to get swept up and folded into the imagery. The ghost of music riding the draft that passed by the tips of her large ears brought to mind an elegant ballroom.

“Solas, did they host soirees at this castle?” She asks dreamily from her place on the floor, her accented words lilting as they tickled his ears.

“Many a gathering was held in its halls. Memories of harmonies have been carried throughout the centuries in a never ending dance.” He responded thoughtfully.

She hummed in response, “A never ending dance sounds wonderful, oh how I miss dancing.” Harellan swooned. “Do you know how to dance, Solas.”

A smile broke out on his face and he nodded, “Yes, though I haven’t had a means to in ages.”

Harellan’s eyes widened and she smiled back, “There is a party outside, is there not?”

“Oh you do not wish to dance with me, Inquisitor, go and find the commander, I’m sure he’d be much finer company.” He declined with a gentle persistence.

“Solas, don’t be shy, there’s a reason I spend my time with you and not the commander.”

One eyebrow quirked in response, “Oh?” He asked.

Harellan, in a daring moment of confidence, stood from her place on the ground and plucked Solas from the bed with a gentle hand on his. He allowed himself to be guided in front of the fireplace of the small cottage. Harellan’s heart beat loudly in her chest she worried he might be able to hear it over the distant sound of music. “I spent many years in Orlais,” she began to speak as Solas rested a hand on the small of her back.

“That explains the accent.” He mused and she smiled back.

“I learned every dance I could, and the court demanded I dance with them, for them, alongside them, and never, in all the years I spent dancing, did I find a partner as intriguing as you.”

A faint blush dusted the tips of Solas ears. As they began to dance, he smiled. “Have you ever encountered anything quite like Fereldan music?”

Harellan tilted her head back and laughed as they swayed. It was quiet and airy, like it was a secret meant for only the two of them.  “Oh no, it is painfully Fereldan,” she remarked, “I’m sure if music had a smell, it would smell like wet dog too.” 

The minstrel’s tune, though different from what both were used to, carried their feet around the open area of the humble abode. The floor creaked under their shared weight. Solas spun her around and she felt her days in Orlais seep into the present. The orchestral harmonies replaced the bard’s lute and she could’ve sworn she felt the kiss of silk swaying about her ankles.

* * *

 

_“My what a strange looking elf.”_

Murmurs snaked across the ballroom floor, dancing around the legs of nobles and skirts around the lacy edges of intricate dresses.

_“A savage, that one is.”_

The elite held their places around the edges of the ballroom, speaking in hushed whispers among themselves while the younger generation gawked outwardly as Lady Morneau put on display her brand new savage. 

_“Her skin is as pale as the winter snow.”_

_“But the markings are scarlet, I’ve never seen anything like her.”_

The savage dressed in the most peculiar fashion. Her hair was stark white, matching her deathly pale skin, and a complete mess; braids were coming undone and looked like it hadn’t been brushed through in ages, if at all. Her traditional Dalish tattoos travelled past her face and neck, along her torso and legs, all the way to her feet where her bare toes were tattooed individually. But where a normal Dalish would’ve had a green, blue, or even black tattoo, the Savage’s were a dark scarlet, the color of old blood.

 An intricately designed, colorfully beaded top cinched around her neck and sloped along the top of her almost colorless chest leaving her pert breasts exposed. Her navel was pierced through with a bizarre kind of jewelry that looked dangerous if she bent the wrong way and below that, the belt of her skirt was beaded to match the top. The skirt itself was a thin fabric with deep, double slits, one on each side, revealing both of her pale legs for the Orlesian court’s prying eyes.

 _“I have never seen so much skin in all of my life!”_ A Countess exclaimed in shock. _“It’s hardly proper.”_

The young elf girl fidgeted on the spot, obviously uncomfortable. Her eyes flitted from one corner of the room to another like a scared animal. She shook uncontrollably in her spot.

_“Oh Lady Morneau, is it true that she doesn’t speak The King’s English?”_

Lady Morneau smiled behind her mask as she grew nearer to the girl, “Alas it is true, but my darling savage is going to undergo training here shortly.”

 _“You’re actually going to let her into your home?”_ One nobleman asked, _“You know you can’t trust an elf.”_

 _“Unless you’ve instilled the fear of the Maker in them.”_ Another added and a few other nobles murmured in agreement.

“Oh that’s quite untrue, Guillaume. I have a house full of them, and I know for a fact that you do too,” Lady Morneau scolded, then added, “Besides, she is very docile. We will have to see how she does.”

 

  The crowd poked and prodded at the elf girl with their eyes, not daring to touch her, until the night was over and Lady Morneau drove them of so they could make their way to her chateau, a beautifully chiseled miniature palace just outside of Val Royeaux, where elven servants greeted them at the door. A young girl, not much older than the Savage herself, came to take the Lady’s coat.

She had long, thick ebony hair that was braided and clipped together in the back to keep away from her face, which The Savage noted, was clear of any blemish or marking. That included vallaslin, and she wondered briefly if she hadn’t come of age yet. Were things so different away from her clan that the other elves didn’t receive their vallaslin at all? There was beauty in the elder elf’s face; her eyes were vigilant like a cat’s, her lips rounded like a cherub’s, and the more she studied her face, the more she realized the older elf woman looked like she could be one of her clan. She felt familiar, safe even. The Savage couldn’t help herself, so she stared openly.

“Ghela, dear,” Lady Morneau said as she ushered the group towards her chambers, “Will you be a dear and draw a bath for our Savage guest?” Her tone was inquiring, but Ghela knew that it was no question and set about getting a bath ready. She eyed The Savage and almost regretted it. She was thin and covered in dirt and grime. She looked like a bloodstained ghost, with her red tattoos and the way her unpigmented skin reflected the moonlight. It was almost blinding. Ghela sneered at her when she noticed her staring, and the younger elf immediately dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Yes my lady,” Ghela nodded before taking her leave.

The Savage’s eyes danced around the gilded halls, drinking in every decorated inch. Large windows along the hallways ushered in much of the moon’s light to glitter upon the slick tile flooring. It was different from the place she had recently been taken to; it was quiet and as she strained her neck to look around, The Savage noted that there were less people. A home, she guessed.

Lady Morneau took motioned for The Savage to follow her down the hall and she did, though slowly so she could take in the details of the manor.

 The sound of bare feet slapping against tile was loud to the Savage’s rather large ears, and echoed in her mind even after she had stopped in front of a large wooden door. Oh how she missed the quiet of the forest floor. Yet, the beauty of the glittering halls did not escape her notice. It captivated her and held her close. She couldn’t wait to see it in the daylight.

 Daylight…she thought. It couldn’t be that this Lady intended to have her stay here? She wondered if it was even safe for her here among the shems, but briefly she remembered the elves she witnessed at the masked gathering and the few she’s already seen upon arrival here and she felt almost safe. It was good to know she wouldn’t be alone, but she couldn’t shake the inkling of fear of the unknown rising in her chest.

 The Savage was brought out of her reverie when Lady Morneau stopped at a large door. She gently tugged at a golden handle and the door flew effortlessly open to reveal a lavish sleeping chamber heralded by ornate, white furnishings. Wall to wall white with shining, golden trim. A fire blazed in the hearth to stave off the cold, and for the first time since leaving the party, The Savage realized that she was shivering and welcomed the warmth the fire provided. She padded over to the hearth and sat down on the warm tiles happily, content to watch the world from her spot on the floor.

 Another young elf, just as fresh faced as the one before, was already present in the bed chambers to help Lady Morneau prepare to retire for the night. Her short, blonde hair was cut choppily much like a young boy’s, and the look was endearing accompanied by her kind, round face.

 The Savage watched curiously as The Lady removed her mask and let her hair down. Greying curls, the color of the softest soil, fell from their place to cascade down her tired shoulders and a kind smile replaced the hard, unyielding smirk of her golden façade. The Savage looked upon her face with curiosity; she had thought the woman to be younger, but the soft lines formed around her eyes and the sides of her mouth proved otherwise.  A relieved expression graced the woman’s features and she ran an ungloved hand along her sore scalp.

“Tell me dear,” she urged as the other young elf helped her out of her heavy skirts, “do you know any English at all?”

Though she did not understand, The Savage could tell by the tone of her voice, that she was asking her a question. She dropped her curious gaze from the old woman’s face and toyed with one of her fraying braids. “Ir abelas…”

“Do speak up, my dear, I can’t hear like I used to,” Lady Morneau chuckled to herself while The Savage fidgeted uncomfortably. The older woman turned quickly, causing the elf servant to let out a yelp of surprise. A pink flush colored the tips of her sharp ears under her lady’s gaze.

“M-my lady?” she stumbled over her words.

“Isel, do you know any elvish?”

“I’m sorry, milady, but wh-what do you m-mean?” Curse her timid nature.

“Elvish? Elf-language, I don’t know what you all call it, but do you speak it?” Lady Morneau stopped herself from getting too excited at the prospect of having something the other nobles did not. This was her opportunity to get back in the court, back in The Game.

“N-no, milady, b-b-b-but-,” Isel felt tears prick her eyes. Why couldn’t she just spit it out?

“But what, my child?” Lady Morneau interrupted, upon seeing the frustration in little Isel’s big, green eyes. Isel was grateful and reminded herself that she was lucky to serve a woman that, while unconventional at times, was understanding.

“Varahel knows the m-most out of us all,” Isel explained, “He grew up i-i-in a Dalish camp for a t-time, I believe.”

“Brilliant, Isel, brilliant, you must tell Varahel to meet me in my study tomorrow morning,” She soothed the girl’s hair in a motherly way before patting her shoulder. “Another thing before you depart, would you tell the kitchen that I need a plate of fruit sent up to the guest’s room, she hasn’t eaten anything all night and I’m afraid she might waste away.”

“Fruits, my lady?” Isel clarified, but Lady Morneau raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow in question.

“Do they not eat fruits, Isel? I have no idea; it is my first time owning a savage.” She spoke to herself and busied her hands with braiding her hair in a simple plait down her back. Isel gave a nervous chuckle before turning around to leave. “Just the fruits then, Isel dear.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Isel nodded and just as she opened the door, Ghela, the elf from before poked her head in. The Savage’s eyes were immediately drawn to the older elf and Ghela rolled her own in response before motioned for her to follow. The Savage glanced back at Lady Morneau, who nodded and said farewell before yawning and turning away to her mirror.

The Savage wasn’t as dumb as Ghela originally thought because she jumped up quickly and trailed behind her like a lost puppy. Scarlet eyes, like two rubies, stared a hole in Ghela’s back, much to her annoyance. The Savage so badly wanted to speak with her, she looked like home, felt like home, and she ached to have the familiarity. She wanted to explain herself, oh how she wanted to, but the more time she spent in the realm of the shemlens it was becoming painfully apparent that these elves only speak the language of the shems. Reluctantly, she settled for the uncomfortable silence that nestled between them.

Ghela led her to another large door with a golden handle. Inside there was a smaller version of what the Lady had in her chamber. A four poster Orlesian bed stood in command of the entire room, swathed in light pink sheets and pillows. It seemed that it was the theme of the room for the curtains matched and the walls were decorated similarly with paintings from the same vein. On the dresser along the far wall, beside a window that overlooked the moonlit garden, there lay a collection of tiny, pink ceramic pigs. The Savage eyed them adoringly, admiring them from afar.

“Don’t break anything in here, because I’m the one who has to clean it up if you do.” Ghela warned, but much to her increasing annoyance, The Savage cocked her head to the side with an apologetic look in her naïve doe eyes. Ghela groaned in frustration before opening the adjoining door to a lavish bathroom.

Steam rolled around the wash room in large barreling clouds that reminded The Savage of a dreamland. The ceiling was incredibly high and from it hung a large chandelier set to bathe the room in warm light. A large white tub sat in the middle of the room full of hot, steaming water. The Savage could only image how good that would feel upon her aching body, she shuddered in anticipation. Bottles of all shapes lined the shelves along the western wall, full of oils, salves, and Maker knows what else.

“Just don’t break anything, or use too much of the oils or else the bubbles will overflow from the bath and I have to clean it.” Ghela warned and then turned on her heel to leave.

The Savage opened and closed her mouth like a fish, willing the words to come out, but she couldn’t find her voice until her companion shut the door behind her. “Ghela!” She called, her voice raspy from disuse.

Ghela whipped the door open and stared at her with incredulity. Half of her wanted to belief that this savage woman didn’t have the ability to speak and would just be a ridiculous, mute hassle to deal with until the Lady got bored and things could go back to the way they were, but her hopes were dashed with the Savage’s words.

“Ma serannas, Ghela.” The Savage said with a soft smile. Her teeth were almost yellow in comparison with everything else about her and Ghela exhaled, blowing some stray hair out of her face, the least bit pleased by the fact that she understood what the savage had said.

“It’s not a problem, I suppose,” She relented and suddenly felt herself shake her head. “Gods, you don’t even understand me, why am I speaking with you?” She asked herself out loud and dragged a hand down her face in exasperation.  “I’m like those crazy women that speak to their pets.” And to _myself_ , she thought.

“Ghela,” The Savage said, gaining her attention. The Savage pointed to her, “Ghela.”

“Yes, that’s it, I’m Ghela. I’m glad we have that cleared up.”

The Savage then pointed to herself, “Ir…” She paused and for the briefest second, Ghela thought she saw her grimace, but as quick as it came, it was gone. “Harellan.”

“Your name is Harellan?” Ghela concluded and found herself pointing just as Harellan had. Harellan nodded and gave her a bright smile. Ghela grunted and nodded before leaving Harellan to her own devices.

That was the first night, one of many, that Harellan spent mesmerized by the entrancing scents of Orlesian oils and the retention of heat in a bath that lasted longer than ten minutes. She soaked until the water turned brown and her skin flushed from the heat. Once she was done, she paced around the large bathroom until she grew dizzy then threw the silken nightgown a servant had brought in over her head and stuck her arms through the sleeves. Warm and content, Harellan climbed under the plush blankets, sank into the pillows, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

 In the still of the cottage, one could hear the snow falling softly outside the window. Both breathlessly wondered how long they were dancing for. Minutes? Hours? Lost in one another, they truly couldn’t say. Solas spun Harellan around once more and she smiled at him endearingly. Her smile was like a lethal weapon and Solas found he didn’t have a shield. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest; the sound of her rugged breathing awakened something in him. He briefly considered his Inquisitor in a different manner and had to shake his mind off of it.

 Solas opened his mouth to speak, but Harellan’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Wait, hush.” Harellan interrupted him breathily, holding up one finger to silence him.

“I don’t hear anything,” Solas whispered, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach as she resentfully drifted out of his arms.

“That’s the problem.” Harellan rushed to the door as Solas plucked his staff from its spot on the way out. The music and general noises of a gaiety had completely ceased.

Harellan bolted from the door and before she knew it, fell into the arms of Dorian, the Tevinter mage that had saved her life in Redcliffe.


	2. Idioms

_Once their clearing was ravaged, the forest creatures had to venture to a new land, a new home._

_“I know of a new clearing, one near a stream, it is not far and will serve our needs well.” The wolf told the halla, who nodded, happy to have a new direction._

_“I’ll trust you.” She said in response._

_The halla quickly rallied the rest of the animals and followed the wolf as he guided them towards their new clearing._

_The grass was soft and just as the wolf had described, there was a stream nearby where the creatures could drink and play. Together the group worked to create a wonderful living space that would suit each and every need. It would need work before it became a home, but the clearing had incredible potential._

_“How can I thank you for this, dear wolf?” Asked the halla. The wolf sniffed._

_“All I ask is that you continue to trust me.”_

_“Of course.” Replied the halla._

* * *

 

Energy was high among those who arrived to Skyhold. After weeks of walking, trudging through snow, and climbing uphill, the Inquisition finally had a home. Hundreds were displaced from the destruction of Haven, but Skyhold was sturdy and held the promise of safety.

Weeks passed before all those that made the trek were stationed inside the walls. Tents were pitched and supplies were passed around to those in need of them as everyone got settled. Harellan worked tirelessly to see that everyone received what they desired.

Setting a heavy crate down on the ground to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the Inquisitor spied Cullen amidst a throng of people ascending and descending the stairs behind his makeshift office; a long board of wood laying on top of two emptied crates where dozens of papers flapped in the balmy morning breeze from underneath rocks and paper weights of all difference shapes and sizes.

The Inquisitor passed her load onto the hands of a passerby with a quick thanks before joining the bustling bodies in Cullen’s poor choice of temporary workspace.

“Cullen,” Harellan called, forcing the commander’s gaze from the arrangements he was making. His shoulders tensed noticeably and the Inquisitor felt her stomach churn guiltily. Cullen was always tense around her and she couldn’t begin to understand why.

The Commander waved a couple of soldiers and motioned for her to come to him. Once she reached him he let out a sigh, “Hello Inquisitor.”

“Cullen, how many did we lose?” Harellan didn’t bother beating around the bush. She was tired and wanted to know how many letters she would have to help Josephine write.

“A good many men,” the commander shook his head sadly, but a weak smile graced his handsome features, “but it would’ve been worse if you hadn’t stayed behind.”

“I did what I had to.” She replied and after Cullen handed her the beginnings of a list of names, she turned to leave. Cullen reached out to grab her arm before she could get too far. The young woman turned to look her commander in the eyes. He dropped her thin arm and avoided her unintentionally acute gaze by staring at the dirt under his boots.

“You stayed…you could’ve…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but she knew what he wanted to say. She could’ve died.

“My job’s not done yet, Commander,” Harellan reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You may bury me when this is all over, hopefully somewhere warm and sunny.” She shivered with a small laugh, “It is far too cold in Skyhold.”

“Do you need more people to stoke your fire?” Cullen’s brows knitted together in worry and a couple soldiers started chuckling behind him. Harellan lit up with a small smile.

“Oh, that’d be lovely, Commander.”

“I bet he’d stoke her fire any day.” One of the men remarked and the others laughed raucously as the commander blushed bright red and dropped the Inquisitor’s hand as if it were made of fire. Harellan only smiled, not understanding what they were meaning.

“Would you really, Cullen?” She asked, moved by the gesture. “I mean, obviously, we have people to do that for us, but that’s so sweet of you.”

“Oh yeah,” The soldier faked sympathy with a barely repressed laugh. “Don’t worry, he’s got a lot of wood for your fire.”

“Delightful!” Harellan’s whole body trembled in yearning for a roaring fire warming her chambers. The soldiers laughed unabashedly and Harellan’s smiled dimmed as anxiety pooled in her stomach. The soldiers were mocking her. Yet as her mind raced, she couldn’t figure out why. It was obvious she missed something in the conversation.

Harellan turned looked to her commander for some insight, staring at his flushed face and awkward stance. Then she looked at the soldiers as they gestured rudely to themselves. She looked back at Cullen and… oh. Her eyes grew wide and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“Elgar'nan!” she gasped, embarrassment pumping through her veins. “Is that all you shems ever think about?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, trying to suppress the mixture of rage and embarrassment. He turned towards the small gaggle of soldiers and took a deep breath. “This is your Inquisitor, treat her with respect. This uncouth behavior will not be tolerated.”

Each soldier, one by one, shut their mouths and muttered their apologies.

“Sorry, milady.” The soldiers, having now incurred the commander’s rage, each scuttled off to find something new to do. Cullen made sure to make a mental note to give them all punishment later.

“I…uh…apologize for that lot, Inquisitor, but I will get someone to keep the fires going,” He nodded, wanting nothing more than to curl up underneath a rock and never come out.

“I appreciate it, Commander.” Harellan replied before taking her leave. Mentally beating herself up for her own misunderstanding, she stepped lightly up the stairs to the Great Hall.

Making quick work of the list of names by dropping them off to Josephine with the promise to help her write at least a few of them, Harellan was now free to Skyhold. Her feet carried her towards Solas’ rotunda, where it lay empty, much to her dismay. She briefly wondered where he could’ve gone, but dismissed it before taking the stairs, two at a time, up past the library to where Leliana sat, writing her reports.

Harellan stepped past the desk and crawled up into window to watch the rest of the world go by, and to avoid any other soldiers who had been privy to the earlier mishap. Maker, she won’t be able to think of firewood without imagining Cullen’s flushed face and the insistent laughing of the soldiers. Her pale cheeks flushed red and she buried her face in her arms as she settled into the window, wishing she could exist in quiet.

 Coming to this window had become something of a hobby of hers, when Varric or Solas weren’t available to tell stories, the Inquisitor would come to this window and sit quietly, perched high above the hustle and bustle of Skyhold with nothing but the sound of Leliana’s quill scratching parchment and the occasional call from a raven to accompany her.

 “I understand you spent time as a bard in the Orlesian court, Inquisitor.” The spymaster spoke from her place at her table, starting quiet conversation as she busied herself with her reports.

“I tried to avoid killing anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harellan replied, pulling her knees to her chest as if it would defend her from this conversation. Her time in the court wasn’t anything ignoble or repugnant by any standards, but she didn’t like the stigma that came with the title.

 “I wasn’t asking anything, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, finally glancing up from the parchment with an intrigued smirk playing on her lips. “But if you weren’t an ‘Orlesian Bard’ by the known terms, what kind of bard were you?”

The Inquisitor heaved a sigh and stole the chance to look outside, trying to choose her words carefully. The smell of an expensive wine collection being downed by the nobles wafted through the air on the winds of memory. Glasses clinked together in a devilish symphony, the unspoken recognition that any one of the present party could be there with malicious intent. The Orlesian court’s Great Game.

“The kind that listened, protected those that protected me, and most importantly, the kind that told stories.” She finally replied.

 Leliana snorted out of amusement. “A glorified minstrel, then.”

“At least I wasn’t an assassin, murdering innocents in the name of a noble’s petty squabble.” Harellan jabbed back at her, allowing herself to relax against the window’s cool stone as she enjoyed the banter.

“A rose by any other name.” Leliana retorted, genuinely pleased.

“What?”

“It’s a saying, Inquisitor, I would have thought that you’d have known it.” Leliana stopped her work completely and edged her chair closer, drawing the Inquisitor in with one movement. “A rose by any other name smells just as sweet.”

“I don’t understand,” Harellan shook her head with a defeated laugh. This whole day taught her that if she ever thought she mastered the language, shems would find ten more new things to confuse her.

“It means that regardless of what you called yourself, a bard, a minstrel, you still did the same things.” Leliana explained, having grown familiar with the Inquisitor’s lack of knowledge in the common language.

“Ugh, why did you not just say so?” Harellan whined, “Why do you people have to make everything so complicated?”

Leliana dissolved into laughter then and the Inquisitor followed suit.  

“There was this one time, when I was first learning your language…” Harellan started a story through her giggles.

* * *

 

 

“For the last time, my lady; she is unteachable!” Varahel explained, exasperated. Harellan sat behind him and shrugged, not quite understanding his words but feeling the meaning behind them. “She speaks a language that is far more advanced than what even the Dalish know; it’s like she’s been spoon-fed by the People all her life!”

“I don’t care, Varahel,” Lady Morneau folded her arms across her chest, her golden mask shining harshly in the morning light. “I expect results by the end of the day; any improvement is better than none!” She stood from her plush settee and freed her dress of wrinkles before taking leave of the study. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go fabric shopping; I can’t have her wearing a nightgown forever.”

It had been a week since the fateful day the lady of the house brought their new stray home and Harellan was still just as confused as the day she first arrived.

She had learned names by imitation and could point to them without fail. “Varahel”, “Ghela”, “Morneau”. The intelligence was there, Varahel concluded. But the language barrier was a problem.

 

Varahel sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then turned back to the young elf. Once the grime of months without proper grooming was etched away, she truly was an ugly thing. Her eyes were wide and spaced apart and if not for the color, she would’ve looked like a baby halla. The tips of her ear extended far past average, and he briefly worried she’d get carried away if caught by the wind. She still wore her silken night gown from her first night in the chateau, her snow-white hair almost matching in color.

Another sigh escaped the blonde elf’s lips, “Alright, da’len,” he said, “Let’s try this again.”

Harellan watched her teacher with curiosity. Wizened as he was, Varahel still held the handsomeness he obviously had in his younger years.  He had an aristocratic nose and a strong jawline framed by flaxen tresses that fell loosely against his shoulder blades, and as the sun shone through the nearby window, he seemed to shimmer in its rays.

With his limited knowledge, Varahel instructed her to repeat after him as he taught her the names of certain items around the room. “A chair, a desk, a pen,” he said.

 “A chair, a desk, a pen,” she repeated softly.

“Speak up, da’len,” Varahel chided months later.

Their lessons had taken off at an alarming pace and like the malleable brain of an infant, sentences stuck with Harellan like glue. The two walked through the gardens of the Morneau Chateau.

“Of course,” she replied with a nod, struggling to keep up with his pace in her heavy Orlesian skirts. It wasn’t her first choice of outfit, Ghela had been the one to come to her room that morning with the heavy dress across her arm.  

“This is an important skill in the court,” He continued his lesson. “In her glory days, our Lady could stand in the middle of a crowded room and get her point across to everyone; even those who held the walls.”

“And now?” She asked, panting, almost out of breath from heaving her heavy skirts to and fro. Varahel eyed her curiously and briefly wondered who put her in an evening gown during the middle of the day before he remembered Ghela snickering to herself outside Harellan’s chambers that morning. He just shook his head at the nonsense.

“She hasn’t lost her touch,” he replied.

“Well that’s good to know, but…” Harellan trailed off, “I don’t exactly understand what her sense of feeling has anything to do with speaking to an audience.”

Now it was Varahel’s turn to be confused. He bit his lip to stifle his laughter. “No, Harellan, it doesn’t have anything to do with speaking.” He motioned for his student to follow him out of the garden.

“What I just demonstrated was an idiom, a saying if you will.” He explained as they strolled through the open double doors to the bailey. 

“An ih-dee-um?” The young teen tried the word, and scrunched up her nose. “A saying…we have those as well.”

Varahel nodded, pleased. “Very good, da’len. It’s important to make connections within the two languages.” He said before looking to the sky, “That should complete our lesson for the day.”

He outstretched his hand to lead her into the kitchen. “Come, our lady will want to see your progress.”

Harellan stepped through the doorway and her teacher followed after her. As the two ambled their way through the sparkling halls, Harellan was relieved to find it was easier to walk in her dress without the damp ground sinking beneath her feet.

In the study, Lady Morneau sat comfortably in her large plush chair. Her dark, greying curls were pulled off her neck into an elaborate piece upon her head, giving her the appearance of a woman half her age. Hearing Varahel and Harellan as they enter the room, she stands, setting her book aside, and Harellan realized that Morneau wasn’t wearing shoes; an oddity, but then again she was also dressed comfortably in a cotton day dress rather than a heavy evening gown.

“You appear as if you’re already prepared to go to the ball this evening, my dear.” She quirked her eyebrow, “Though I believe I want you in the red for your public debut. See to it, that Ghela helps you change.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harellan curtsied as she was instructed and Lady Morneau waved her off. The young elf swept gracefully out of the room and once she heard the door click behind her, she broke out in a run towards her own chambers.

Heaving the huge door open, she threw herself into the room and clawed at her back for the ribbons holding her in place, “Oh come on!” She grumbled until finally her lithe fingers landed upon the thin fabric of the end of the ribbon. Yanking mercilessly, Harellan loosened the corset Ghela had tied so tightly.

With her lungs free, Harellan gulped for air like a fish out of water, taking lungful after lungful. Her vision blackened around the edges as the dress fell around her ankles. She climbed onto the bed and lay an arm over her eyes.

_“What am I doing?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I'm pretty excited to write about Harellan because she's very precious to me. Let me know what you think, pretty please!


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